She glanced at the clock: 2:27 A.M. Returning her head to the pillow, she went still and listened, but his breathing was steady.
She dozed and woke again to what sounded like wheezing, but turned out to be laughter in the hall.
She drifted off again, bolting up this time to what sounded like choking, but turned out to be the rumble of a truck on the street far below.
Charlotte’s words became her mantra. He’ll do fine, Nicki. So will you. She had Team Quinnipeague rooting from afar—lavender to calm, valerian to uplift, red four-leaf clover with the alleged ability to make wishes come true.
Nicole hadn’t told Julian about those. He was a scientist. Scientists didn’t do alleged.
Nicole wasn’t as doctrinaire. Had she been on the island, she would still be picking that clover, still be holding it close for three days to let her wish take root. She liked knowing that Charlotte was doing it for her now that she was gone. With Friday only three days off, she needed all the help she could get.
Chapter Twenty-seven
EARLY TUESDAY MORNING, JULIAN HAD a second chemo infusion, and when there was no sign of trouble this time, either, he said he was bored. He couldn’t run, couldn’t work. He wasn’t interested in the art museum or the planetarium, and as for other options, there were limits. Hammon didn’t want them going far on the chance of a delayed reaction. Nor did he want them in tight spaces where, with Julian’s immune system low, he might pick up an infection.
For Nicole, finding the right distraction on a moment’s notice was a challenge, which was in turn a welcome distraction. Taking to heart her mother’s advice on creativity, she worked with those medical parameters and the hotel concierge, and came up with a plan.
By noon on Tuesday, in a rental car that came with a programmed GPS and box lunches, they drove to the Brookfield Zoo and, on Wednesday, the Botanical Garden. Julian’s gait was more stilted both days, perhaps from the fatigue he was trying to ignore, but since they walked arm in arm, she could help. Both venues were quiet and open, with plenty to see. At night, they either watched movies in their room or slept, all of which took their minds from The Main Event, as Nicole thought of the transplant in her sane Jekyll moments. The harried Hyde moments were when she texted Charlotte, who had a stake in this, too, and who could calm her.
Julian had no injection on Thursday. Hammon wanted to check him out a final time and review the details of the procedure with them, which precluded another day trip. So they simply walked through Navy Pier that afternoon, stopping when Julian tired but otherwise just … walking. They ate dinner at a restaurant that Nicole had heard about, taking care to sit at a secluded table, and watched another movie in their room, but they had more trouble this last night denying what was to come. There was a poignancy in the arm Julian kept around her. He was the one who seemed to need physical contact through a toss-and-turn night.
All too soon, it was Friday morning. As instructed, they were at the hospital by six, at which time Julian was admitted, settled in a room, and hooked up to monitors and an IV. With Hammon supervising, he took a single Tylenol by mouth and a ten-minute IV infusion of Benadryl, both prophylactic treatments of possible reaction to the T-regulatory cells. The Benadryl made him seriously drowsy, which was a good thing, Nicole decided, since she was a bundle of nerves. It was worse once the actual infusion began. She studied first Julian, then Mark, looking for a reaction from either of them to what was finally happening.
Julian was fuzzy. She saw no clues there.
But Mark? Intense. As he stood by the IV pole on the opposite side of the bed, she couldn’t decide whether he was simply concentrating hard or downright frightened. He was more a thinker than a talker; she knew that. But she needed to know now if he was having second thoughts.
“Doubts?” she asked aloud.
Her voice startled him, he was that absorbed. His eyes flew to hers, but it was a minute before he raised his brows and pressed his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “I always have doubts. The process wouldn’t be experimental if I didn’t.”
It wasn’t the unequivocal thumbs-up she needed. But he had to have a feeling one way or another. “Are you worried?”
“I’m always worried.” He glanced at the monitors that showed Julian’s vital signs. “That’s why we’re watching so closely.”
“I’m fine,” Julian murmured sleepily.
Nicole rubbed his arm. “Mark was about to tell me that.” Her eyes put the question to the doctor. She didn’t care if he made it up. She needed the reassurance and wanted Julian to hear.
Hammon pushed at his glasses again and finally said, “If I didn’t have faith in T-reg cells, I wouldn’t be trying it. The lab tests were good. The first human trials were good.”
“Those weren’t with MS,” she whispered.
“No,” Mark confirmed. “Julian’s my first.”
At mention of his name, Julian opened his eyes. “How’m I doing?” he asked Mark, seeming to have drifted in and out of the conversation. Turning the arm with the blood pressure cuff, he reached for Nicole’s hand.
“So far, so good,” Hammon said.
With a satisfied murmur, he closed his eyes again. He looked pale but peaceful. The monitors held steady.
“Don’t take my distraction for doubt,” Mark said, finally opening up to Nicole. “Someone in my position is constantly reviewing a huge amount of information. The responsibility can feel overwhelming at times. Julian knows how that is. He’s a risk-taker, too.”
Eyes closed, Julian nodded, at which point Nicole decided that she was with two men who were either very brave or very reckless. Whatever, watching the slow drip of the cells, she was a nervous wreck. She had half a mind to ask for a little of that Benadryl herself.
They stood in silence for a time, she to Julian’s right, the doctor to his left. Her eyes went from the IV, to Julian, to Mark, and back.
They reached the fifteen-minute mark; the infusion was half done.
“So, if something happens, when would it be?” she asked Mark. And it was strange. No one here was talking about the effect the cells might have on MS. At this point, it was solely about getting Julian through the treatment alive.
Mark shrugged a brow. “It could be any time—now, tonight, tomorrow. Different bodies react different ways. Some patients have no reaction at all.”
But others did, Nicole knew. Stroke, heart attack, respiratory failure—these were three of the worst possibilities, but the list included dozens, running the gamut from mild to severe, all of which Julian had signed off on, as if complications were expected, as if they were perfectly acceptable. Of course, he’d had no choice. Without his signature, the procedure would have been off.
The infusion ended. Julian remained the same. Mark watched him for a while, then left to monitor vital signs from an office down the hall.
Alone, Nicole held her husband’s hand. He opened his eyes from time to time, and gave her a smile, but it was small. “Feel okay?” she asked, to which he nodded each time. She poured him water and held the straw while he sipped. She poured herself a cup, but it didn’t slow her own inner shakes.
After a bit, she began to feel dizzy. Not wanting to leave Julian’s side, she ignored it, but it didn’t ease. When the world went a milky white, she backed into a chair, hung her head to restore the flow of blood, and focused on breathing in and out, in and out. In time, she was well enough to look up again. Julian continued to sleep.
Pulling out her phone, she texted Charlotte. He made it through the infusion. Now we wait for a reaction. Tell me we did the right thing.
The speed of Charlotte’s reply said she had been waiting for news. We did the right thing. Julian wants this. Is he nervous?
No. Dopey. They have him on a heavy dose of Benadryl.
When will you know if the transplant works?
Nicole took a tempering breath. She had asked the same question not only of Mark, but of various members of his team, not to mention the nursing
staff, and the answer was unsatisfactory each time. That depends on how he reacts. Seizures will mask the disease. Same with stroke.
Why are you expecting the worst?
Because I’m terrified. So much is riding on this.
But it’s done. You can’t take it back. You have to look ahead. Be optimistic.
* * *
Charlotte set down the phone. She was sitting cross-legged on the single step outside Leo’s office while, across the beach and in the surf to his thighs, the man himself was sanding the dock.
She had promised to help. Right now, though, she wished she were in Chicago, and it had nothing to do with messy jobs like sanding and restaining a dock. If Julian was groggy and the doctor was focused on looking for trouble, who was there for Nicole?
Catching her eye, Leo waved her over.
Raising a just-a-sec finger, she opened her contact list, selected a name, and put through the call.
* * *
Nicole felt washed out. She wasn’t dizzy now, more sick to her stomach, but she hated to leave the room. Something could happen at any time. She had to be there if it did.
Julian awoke enough to ask for the TV. Encouraged, she turned on a news station, though he seemed to drift more out than in. Nurses came to check the flow of fluids from the IV, and they couldn’t have been nicer. They brought him Jell-O. They brought him pudding. They even brought Nicole chowder and crackers, which she ate only because she knew she needed nourishment, though it was the worst chowder she’d ever had. Naturally, she was comparing it to chowder on Quinnipeague, where she was desperate to be.
She texted Charlotte. Are you working?
Yes. Just sent you SIDES and SNACKS, all done. Do NOT look at them now.
Nicole was torn, more Jekyll and Hyde stuff. While her heart was with Julian and about as distant from the cookbook as could be, Nickitotable stamping her foot, pointing at the computer, telling her to work. Maybe tonight, she typed. My editor wants everything by Thursday. She had been so caught up in the countdown to the transplant, that she had slackened off. But Thursday was less than a week away.
Your editor won’t even look at it until after Labor Day, Charlotte wrote back. Trust me. The last two weeks in August are dead in New York. Let me call her and explain. You have more than enough reason to ask for extra time.
I hate to do that. It says something about me.
Are you kidding? Every writer is late. Deadlines are a starting date. Editors give them out in hopes of seeing something a month later.
Nicole was tempted. Six days from deadline meant six days from Charlotte’s departure, after which she was truly on her own. How close are we?
You need to review the last of the recipes. I need to write the POTPIE intro, collect three releases, finish two profiles for SWEETS, but that’s it.
Nicole tried to grasp all that Charlotte had done—and, P.S., it wasn’t like nothing was going on with her life. There would be Leo, surely an issue for Charlotte with only six days left on Quinnipeague. And though Nicole was starting to get used to the idea of their being together, she still couldn’t ask. So she simply typed, What would I have done without you?
You’d have gotten an extension on your deadline, and you still should. You need to read everything I’ve written, and you’ll want to make changes. It’ll be easier because the structure is there, but this is your book. Can I call your editor?
Nicole let out a shaky breath and typed, Not yet. Let’s wait another few days and see what happens.
She sent the last, but continued to stare at the words. See what happens. If Julian had a stroke, it would be more than a few days before she could focus on food. Likewise, if he was paralyzed or recovering from a heart attack, and if he died?
No. Better to get the cookbook done before Charlotte left.
* * *
She spent hours that evening at her laptop in Julian’s room, poring over what Charlotte had sent. Each time Julian stirred, though, she was quickly up and leaning over the bed, asking how he felt, telling him how well he was doing.
Mark, who had been in and out all day, stopped by at ten to say that he was going home for a few hours of sleep. He looked more ruffled than his usual neat self. She doubted he was often at work this late.
“Are you worried?” she whispered again, not wanting Julian to hear.
The doctor’s reply was similarly low, though likely more from exhaustion than secrecy. “No cause for worry yet.”
“Is this a good sign for the success of the treatment?”
He shot her a glance over his glasses. “It’s too early to tell. You should probably get some sleep yourself. Can I drop you back at the hotel?”
“No. I’ll stay a while longer.”
“They’ll call if there’s a problem. You’re only five minutes away.”
The night nurse said the same thing a short time later and again an hour after that. By the time she said it a third time, the room lights were low and Nicole had fallen asleep curled in the chair. She jolted awake at the touch of a hand on her arm.
“He’s still sleeping,” the woman said, “and that’s a good thing, because if he sees you here at this hour, he’ll worry.”
Nicole went to the bed, saw for herself how peacefully Julian was sleeping, and gave in.
* * *
The call came at five on Saturday morning. Having fallen asleep only three hours before, she was dead to the world when the ringing jarred her awake. She was a minute getting her bearings and another searching for the phone in the folds of the sheets.
“Yes?” she breathed, sitting up. She was shaking as much from being startled awake as from fear.
It was Mark, his voice tight. “His temperature spiked. I’m at the hospital now. I won’t call it an emergency yet. But I told you we’d let you know if there was any change.”
“Temperature spiked,” Nicole echoed and swallowed, trying not to panic. “What does that mean?”
“He’s having some kind of reaction. This may be the worst of it.”
Or the start, she knew, pushing the sheets aside. “But you can get his temperature down, right?”
“I’m upping the acetaminophen, but I have to be careful.”
He didn’t have to elaborate. The fear was damage to a liver that hadn’t fully recovered from the last MS drug.
They should have waited. She knew it, knew it. Another month, and he’d have been stronger. Another two months and he’d have been even stronger.
“Is he awake?” she asked, pulling a blouse from the closet.
“Yes. He says he’s okay.”
Of course, Mr. Cool-and-Calm would say that. Mr. Risk-taker would say this was part of the game.
Nicole was neither cool, calm, nor risk-taking. “I’m on my way,” she said, and, ending the call, rushed to get dressed. Having in essence cut Mark off, she didn’t know whether he would have told her to wait, that it wasn’t crucial, that she should just come at eight. But it didn’t matter. No way could she have gone back to sleep.
The sun hadn’t yet risen when she was through the lobby and out the revolving door. Hopping into a cab, she hugged her bag to her chest, only marginally aware of a paler horizon between buildings to the east. In no time, she was at the hospital and taking the elevator to Julian’s floor.
At first glance, there was no imminent trauma—no red lights flashing above his room, no emergency gear in sight. Mark stood just outside the door talking with two of the doctors from his team. Pushing at his glasses, he separated himself from them as she approached. She saw concern on his face, certainly fatigue, but no panic, not yet.
How is he? she mouthed. The floor was still in night mode—lights dimmer, sounds softer—but her own lack of sound wasn’t so much consideration of others as pure anxiety.
“Still hot,” he said quietly.
“Getting worse?”
“Up a notch.”
She was still clutching her bag, needing to hold something solid with the bottom of her w
orld shifting. “Not what we want.”
“No.”
And what more was there to say? Frightened, she entered the room. Julian’s eyes were closed; he would still be on Benadryl, still half zonked. Flags of red touched his cheeks just above the shadow of his beard. His forehead was damp.
He opened his eyes, saw her there, and gave a vague smile. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself,” she said brightly.
“What time is it?” The words were slurred.
“Early.” She didn’t want to alarm him with the actual time, which was five fifty. Slipping her bag to the floor, she leaned in to softly kiss his lips. They were as hot as his cheeks looked. “I couldn’t sleep. How do you feel?”
“Okay.”
“You look like you’ve just finished a run.”
“Don’t I wish,” he murmured and held out a shaky hand for hers. He had a surgeon’s long, slim fingers. She had always liked their warmth against her usually cold ones, but this intense heat was something else.
She told herself that it was the fever that was causing his hand to shake.
He closed his eyes. “This is a blip. It’ll pass.”
“Absolutely,” she said and brought his hand to her throat. “Mark expected things like this.” She glanced at the tray table with its small pitcher and half-filled plastic glass. “Is that drink still cold?” Ice had to be the way to go.
But he said, “It’s fine.”
And she didn’t want to let go of his hand. “Are they letting you eat yet?”
“Only Jell-O.”
She saw none on the tray. “Can I bring you more?”
Eyes still closed, he shook his head. If she couldn’t bring him drink and she couldn’t bring him food, she could at least cool his face. She ran her free hand along his jaw, up to his temple, across his brow and down. He hummed his pleasure.
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